Andrés’s face beamed simply, and he twisted his skull cap as he rose with a clumsy bow.
“I shall be glad,” he stammered. “But only if—until—when that the viracocha shall have no more need of an arriero. For while the magic boxes have to ride on the ribs of a mule, it is safer that I be driver—since the viracocha has shown me, and I know how they must be treated. ‘Gently! Gently! And for the life of you, let no light come into them!’”
Our Yellow Slave.
Our Yellow Slave.
